


Admiral Sweater

by plusVICE



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Creampie, M/M, Mild Size Difference, Mutual Pining, Not Season/Series 08 Compliant, Possessive Keith (Voltron), Post-Canon, Sharing Clothes, Trans Keith (Voltron), Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, alcohol as social lubricant, references to Keith's dick and "hole"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:08:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23091583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plusVICE/pseuds/plusVICE
Summary: Keith just wants a way to remember Shiro, to keep him close. Shiro won't miss the hoodie.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 100
Collections: Sheithlentines 2020





	Admiral Sweater

**Author's Note:**

> A very belated gift for @/iamsizzlebutt on Twitter for the Sheithlentines 2020 event!

“Yes, Keith.”  
  
“Yes, _Sir_.” Shiro can’t hide his smile as Keith corrects the Master Chief needlessly and, if he had to guess, for Shiro’s benefit.

“Yes...Sir.” 

Pidge could insist and tease all they wanted but Keith and Shiro weren’t dating. They made dates, went on dates, but Shiro never used the word and Keith wouldn’t ask him to. Keith didn’t need him to. But Keith turned over the idea of ‘dating’ in his head when he saw the way the staff of the Atlas took up the space around Shiro. Grabbing at his elbow for attention, slapping at his shoulder to make a point, getting into space that belonged to Shiro and that Keith desperately wished he could claim.  
  
"Keith, did you just pull rank on a Master Chief?" Shiro worms an arm around Keith’s head and pulls him close, too affectionate for the bridge.  
  
“Can’t pull rank if I don’t have one.”  
  
“We’ll have to fix that. A paladin of Voltron shouldn’t have to walk the bridge as a civilian.” The jab was soft, sweet, and typically Shiro. Anyone else and Keith would bristle, pushed away by misunderstanding. But this was Shiro. Shiro allowed Keith to take the lead, to wait, to warm up in a new environment, to cool down after a scrap at the Garrison. When his chest puffed up in front of an official and he claimed space that wasn’t his, Shiro was there with a reassuring nod (and a calming hand). “Where are you taking me, Lieutenant commander?”  
  
“Captain.” Shiro echoes the rank into the crown of Keith’s head, breathless, huffs it out with a chuckle. No malice, Shiro would never treat a request from Keith as audacious even if it was a request to jump twenty ranks. Shiro keys them into his Admiral’s quarters. No words needed. Today was more abrupt than most but they always end their days here. They wake up with the sun and go their separate ways. Keith would lead Voltron, sending Her paladins across the stars to keep them settled. He’d meet with the Blades, a family reunion of sorts, a debriefing about the state of the universe for the most part. Shiro would lead the Atlas. Paperwork, paperwork, and diplomatic picture taking before more paperwork. But they’d always settle here: warmed by the waning light, by the company of each other.  
  
Keith didn’t need anything else. Shiro was always enough.  
  
“Are you going to tell me what has you so prickly?”  
  
“No.” They flop together and the sound drops out. No more click of feet in the hall outside or buzz of recycled air. Feeling the huff vibrate through Shiro’s ribs and into his side would never grow old. No matter what they called it: Shiro would always make time for him. “Tell me about your day?”  
  
“Well...I thought I was ahead on my paperwork.”  
  
"You weren’t?”  
  
“I never am.”

  
⁂ ⁂ ⁂

  
They fell asleep in Shiro’s bed, Shiro’s orders. Keith never wants to encroach or get turned away so they play the same game every night. Keith pulls the throw from the back of the couch, curls up, and waves Shiro away. Shiro fusses, Keith feigns ignorance, and they end up, dress pants off, tucked into Shiro’s overstuffed bed. Shiro had suggested pajamas once but Keith had shot it down. So they cuddle in their dress shirts. They’re too hot and too close and dangerously near to something neither of them were willing to name. They suffer the heat and sink together.  
  
The chill of the air lets Keith know he’s waking up alone before his eyes do. Shiro was off to do more paperwork, breakfast taken in his office. He didn’t need to say goodbye, he’d see Keith later. Until then Keith plays pretend, unashamed. He wanders Shiro’s space like it’s his own. Pants off, he makes breakfast, confirms appointments. He feels absurd but comfortable knowing that if Shiro walks in he’d laugh and join Keith in his pantsless shuffle. A small flip in his stomach at the thought pushes Keith to make himself presentable. He needs to leave. Time with Shiro and his things was borrowed. He was allowed to linger but the privilege was something he had to give up every morning. Keith flops onto the bed one last time, stiff to avoid messing up his uniform. He wants to keep Shiro with him, clean musk, harsh soap, deep in his lungs next to something more permanent. No matter how often he lies in the bed it always smells like Shiro. He’d carry it around his neck given the chance.  
  
So when Keith starts to leave, when Keith sees Shiro’s hoodie slung across the back of the crouch, he pushes it into his bag without thinking. Shiro wouldn’t miss it, not before Keith could return it. Shiro was only in his room to undress and sleep, the hoodie obviously forgotten between the two tasks. Keith would give it back or he’d buy Shiro a new one. He’d get Shiro a new hoodie that didn’t stretch over his back in a way that turned heads. The new hoodie wouldn’t be grey, broken in, stained in spots that cleaner could never pull out. The new hoodie wouldn’t smell like Shiro but that would be fixed. He’d throw the hoodie on after workouts, when he woke up, when he settled in for the night and it would smell like it. Rough, deep, inoffensively musky, inoffensively Shiro.  
  
It feels like a stone on his back. Keith tilts backward, forward, and back again in an attempt to walk naturally, to forget that he stole his best friend's clothing like a pervert. The other paladins could never find out about this. He needs to get back to his room. He’ll skip his meetings. The Blades don’t need him at the briefings. The Atlas crew can get by without him. He has to get this weight off his back.

Keith spends the rest of the day in his room. The recycled air is heavy and hot or perhaps it’s the combination of the hoodie and the nonstop flush in his face. He’s drowning in the sweater. He gives up rolling the sleeves to his elbows, allows them to dangle around his fingertips as he arranges and rearranges the collar. It’s like a loose hug from Shiro, the Admiral draped over his shoulders, doing his best to calm Keith’s frantic head. It doesn’t work or it does. Keith spends the day glued to his couch, weighed down by the incredible load of the soft fabric. He’s seen others do something similar. Wearing the ill-fitted clothing of their partners seems to be pleasant for everyone else. Keith doesn’t feel calm or proud. He feels out of his depth.  
  
The day melts away. Keith spends every hour wrestling with the guilt of how much he wants from Shiro, how little he deserves, and how damn good Shiro smells. When the guilt boils up in his stomach, up his throat, he swallows deep, _Shiro_ , and waits for the process to repeat. Hour after hour as the colors change with the light until he’s alone with the dark. Until it becomes hard to ignore that the knocking he hears is coming from his door.  
  
The knocking becomes so persistent that Keith has to rush to stop it. The beating synchronizes with the thumping of his heart, one encouraging the other, boring into his head, a sick _boom boom boom_ he has to stop before it bursts his chest.   
  
“Shiro, I— '' Maybe if he didn’t move and didn’t speak, Shiro would just walk away. He’d ignore the flush crawling up Keith’s neck face, the panting, the clothes on his back would all go unnoticed. Shiro rearranges the stack of folders under his left arm and the bag that smells spicy slung over the right. Hair a little overgrown, Shiro had tried to slick it down to maintain code but after a long day it was slowly falling out of place, into his face in a way too perfect to be called causal. _Shiro was perfect._ The laugh breezed across his forehead as Shiro backed them out of the hallway.  
  
“This is mine. I couldn’t find it when I finished my workout.” Shiro ducked his head down to nip at the collar of the sweater, his breath reaching Keith’s nose for the first time. “I was wondering where it went. A little big but it looks good on you.”  
  
“Shiro? Why— Is everything okay?”  
  
“You skipped all of your meetings today. Didn’t answer any of my calls. I didn’t want to sleep without you in my bed. Thought I’d come get you.”  
  
“Shiro!”  
  
“Too much?” The items in his arms were dropped on the table without ceremony. “I went out with the deck crew and they bought me drinks and told me to toughen up. So I came here but I’m feeling a little stupid now.”  
  
“You gave up pretty quick.”  
  
“This is new for me. Being forward? And you’re very...Keith you’re very—“  
  
“I want to get in your bed.” Keith was so grateful he couldn’t see his own face. He probably looked like Shiro, mouthing at air like a dry fish, eyes just as wide. “With you. I want to get in your bed with you.”  
  
“Yeah?” He was drowning. Water, blood rushing in his ears as he nodded too quickly. He was going to pass out. _Yeah. Absolutely._ “Great. For kissing right? I want to kiss you, Keith. I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long. You—” It was wet, messy, and Keith missed most of Shiro’s mouth but he couldn’t hear any more. He couldn’t wait any longer to taste Shiro. The drink on Shiro’s lips made it bitter, made him pucker, couldn’t stop Keith from readjusting and going in for more. He wants to sink into the space between his lips. Shiro laughs, always laughing, parting his lips, granting Keith’s wish.  
  
“Your bed first.” This was probably a mistake. They had skipped a few steps and would stumble on the landing. They had shared meals and showers and beds but this was different, intimate in a new way. They were finally crossing a line and Keith could no longer find his footing.  
  
Shiro hooks his arms under Keith’s thighs, stable enough to pop him up so the backs of his knees don’t knock against the bed, the two tumbling as a result. Time was slower now, teased out to fill the space they had made. It was theirs. Time for pecks and pulls and heavy petting. Space to explore.  
  
“This okay?” He tapes the inside of Keith’s knee and his body obeys, legs splaying to allow Shiro his pick. His touch is soft, restrained, but sure and heavy in a way that sets Keith’s spine on fire. Shiro isn’t teasing, wouldn’t tease, wouldn’t waste the time between the two of them. He palms at the meat of Keith’s thighs, shadows his dick, and flexes his muscle, lifting Keith up enough to bruise the globe of his ass.  
  
“Nice.” Another whisper into dark hair, huffed, quiet, not meant for a response. Shiro slips his hand below the waistline, not content with the feeling of denim, forcing the fabric down Keith’s thighs. Keith pulls his knees in tight, the chill reminding him that he was exposed, that Shiro could see him. Shiro was here.  
  
“Keith,” It was so soft, so light, it could be imagined. It wasn’t his name he heard but a whisper through skin, a nervous twitch at Shiro’s fingertips. Signals across air, mind to mind. Keith was underwater. That’s all he could understand. “We’re gonna do this?”  
  
“Yes.” Keith grabs at the bottom hem of the hoodie he had stolen. The fabric was suddenly heavy again, in that same way, a stone on his chest. He was desperate to reveal more skin for Shiro, desperate to show him what they had both been missing.  
  
“No, leave it on.” Shiro slips his fingers through Keith’s, skin seeking skin, forgetting their purpose.  
  
“Shiro?”  
  
“Leave it,” He sucked the air through his teeth nipping at his neck in a way that was uncharacteristically gruff. “You wanted it. Leave it.”  
  
The unsteadiness suddenly gone, Shiro’s hands are on Keith’s knees again, pulling them apart so Shiro can consume the only part of Keith he had never seen. Shiro latches onto Keith’s neck to distract him as Shiro feels his way over Keith’s taut thighs, not allowing follow up. Perfect. Like their first kiss, Shiro makes his way over Keith’s neck: sloppy, messy, aimless. Perfect because it was coming from Shiro. Perfect because it was Shiro. He pulls Shiro flush or as flush as he can manage with the plush hoodie between them. He was too warm, too contained, but that’s what Shiro wanted. The thought made him hotter.   
  
“Have you wanted to wear my clothes every night or is this a special occasion?” Shiro’s hands are so big, one hot, one cold, inescapably present on his stomach as Shiro slips them under the sweater. Since Shiro had crashed to Earth, Keith had always been peripherally aware of his prosthetic. It was new but it was Shiro. The matte metal was shocking the first time he had touched it. After years of sneaking touches, Keith hadn’t expected any part of Shiro to feel so cold. But he couldn’t stop himself not when it was Shiro. So he became accustomed to the difference between Shiro’s cold and hot hand, he even grew to like it, placing them on each side of his face. But this? This was new. One side of his stomach feels too cold and the other so hot. Not a single ridge on Shiro’s hands goes unnoticed. He was everywhere. “Keith?”  
  
“I want you to touch me. Both hands, Shiro.” He needed to be clear. Shiro needed to understand. Keith reaches across his body for Shiro’s cold hand and places it as close to his hole as he dares. “Touch me.”  
  
“I’ll see what I can do. You’re a little small for both hands.” Keith tries to push his breath, keep it from retreating as that cold finger circles him before testing his depth. Like everything Shiro does, he is calm and patient, not pushing before Keith is ready.  
  
“What a mess. This for me?” It would have been lewd, filthy if anyone else was doing it but Shiro manages to maintain that levity, a kind clinical questioning as he plays with the slime he gathered from Keith’s hole.  
  
“Shiro.” It was so casual that Keith’s mind takes a moment to catch up with his eyes. Shiro’s wet fingers dip between his lips, eyes never leaving Keith’s as they came back just as wet but noticeably less sticky. “Yes. Shiro, yes.”  
  
It was slow going from there. Shiro was willing to take his time and Keith was willing to take whatever he was given. He was playing with Keith, smearing slick across his thighs before coming back to dig out more. When it became too much or felt like too little, Keith would buck or mewl and Shiro would withdraw just enough to keep things slow.  
  
A consummate gentleman, Shiro’s hand withdraws at the first swipe from Keith, allowing him to pitch his hips and spread his legs so Shiro has a better view. There is no more reservation, he needs Shiro, needs them. Keith wants to know how big that hand is. He holds Shiro’s hand steady, his fingers instinctively forming for a better fit, before bucking down. Perfect. The cold bites at his skin in a way that makes him clench, buck, meet Shiro as they finally land on the same page. After years of chasing and pushing, they are here together. Shiro pushes his fingers deep, adds another, spreads them just enough to let Keith know how big they really are. When Shiro makes his first sound Keith’s entire body shakes.  
  
“You’re beautiful. Really beautiful.” Keith hadn’t managed to see it, he wasn’t looking, but he feels it now. It’s bigger than the toy he used regularly. He would never confess but Keith had tried to match Shiro, make a best guess when buying.  
Keith covers his face without thinking. He was desperate. He had wanted this for so long, so deeply but only now was he aware of the burn.  
  
“Don’t you think this is too quick?”  
  
“You want to stop?”  
  
“No. Fuck, Shiro” _Okay._ It was a whisper or maybe Shiro had said it aloud. Maybe Keith had just drowned it out, barked over it as Shiro pushed in with one smooth motion. He tries to relax, tries to stop clenching down but then Shiro is pulling out and pushing back in and Keith’s mind blanks. Shiro is so close, all over him, pawing and bruising Keith like he’ll float away, like Keith is sinking.  
  
The stretch never gets easier, only smoother. Shiro is so big and Keith can’t stop thinking about it. Can’t think about Shiro’s hands traveling over his body, Shiro’s lips mummering, kissing, begging. Keith could only focus on the in and out, on Shiro, on them.  
  
Keith catches on quickly. When he forgets where he is his voice slips, high and tight and nonsense only Shiro can understand. And he does understand. Shiro responds to every yip with an extra pump of the hips or lets his hand fall down to Keith’s dick. Anything for Keith. Shiro understands.   
  
“You like this?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Can I come inside you?”  
  
“Shiro.” What a mess. Shiro locks Keith with his eyes, pins him with a stare. And he feels it. He feels everything. His back pitches and Shiro catches on before he does, doubling his efforts as Keith falls apart.  
  
He’ll be embarrassed later when it's quiet and the light is warm. He’ll remember the noise he made and the way he begged. The sheets will be stuck to his thighs and with a groan he’ll remember why. But now he relaxes, he enjoys it, Keith allows Shiro, allows himself this moment. He tries to warn Shiro, ask him if he wants to stop, but his hips move without him and he’s pulsing. He’s coming. He’s slapping the bed, clawing at Shiro, trying to remember where he is. And Shiro reminds him. With a hard kiss to the throat and a firm pull onto his dick, Shiro reminds Keith that he’s there with him.   
  
Shiro finishes at a leisurely pace, conscious of the developing tenderness between Keith’s legs. Keith allows himself to be rearranged, cleaned, bundled into a space under Shiro’s neck. A familiar place with new context. _  
_  
“So…”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Can I have my hoodie back?”  
  
“No.”


End file.
